


There's a place for you and me

by defcontwo



Series: new jersey is for lovers [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t know, I just, uh. It wasn’t there. He’s not the kind of guy I could see myself ending up with, I guess.” </p><p>Jack laughs, warm and close, the standard pre-chirp Zimmermann coming in at the edges. “And what kind of guy would that be?” </p><p>Kent swallows hard, and thinks, <i>You. Fuck me, it’s always going to be you</i>.</p><p>Or: the slow and steady steps to a happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a place for you and me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparklyslug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/gifts).



> shout out to my soft JP crew, without which none of this would've been possible. y'all know who you are.

“You know, Zimms, maybe you could stand to learn a thing or two about patience,” Kent says, murmuring the words into the broad expanse of Jack’s back, and following them up with a slow, steady roll of the hips. Beneath him, Jack shudders and whines, pushing back up into Kent. 

Rain patters down in a steady stream against the window panes of Kent’s beach house; so much for today’s surfing plans. 

Well. They’ve made do alright. 

Jack lets out a breath, and it ends in a low groan, muffled by his face pressed half into the pillow and by the sound of the headboard thumping gently into the wall. “I hate you.” 

“Uhuh,” Kent chuckles, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of Jack’s neck, and lacing their fingers together. “Sure you do.” 

This is the benefit to not being teenagers anymore; they know, now, that not everything has to be at breakneck speed. Kent’s learned to love Jack like this: pliant and wanting but always willing to see the journey out to its end, however long it takes to get there. Has learned to love every hitch in Jack’s breath, and the way _Kenny_ slips out less like a whine and more like a prayer, or a secret, known only to them and these four walls. 

“Crisse, _Kenny_ ,” Jack says, and fuck, but Kent could hear that all day every day, and never, ever tire of it, “if you don’t start moving faster, I’m going to kill you.” 

“Why,” Kent says, leaning down, scraping his teeth along the soft skin where Jack’s shoulder meets the curve of his neck, “you got somewhere to be?” 

Jack pushes up impatiently, and lets out a small, breathy, “ _fuck_.” 

God, but he’s beautiful like this. 

“How long do we have until, ah -- holy fuck, Kenny -- until Kit figures out how to open the door, and ruins the moment.” 

Kent snorts with laughter, sharp and sudden, tries to press it into Jack’s skin to stifle it, but his whole body shakes with it anyways. “Well, when you’re right, you’re right, Zimms.” 

“So, always, then, huh?” Jack says, with a sly, small curl to his lips that Kent has to crane his neck awkwardly to kiss, but. 

Worth it, always. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent says, but he’s still laughing, can’t seem to get himself to stop, “do you want me to fuck you or not, smartypants?” 

Jack scoffs, but it comes out as more of a whine. “Promises, promises.”

  


Jack kisses Kent for the second-first time on a Saturday, at the shore, in the dead of the night. They’ve both got a couple of days off until they have to be home for practice, and a weekend by the ocean seemed like as good of an escape as any. Maybe Kent was a little surprised when Jack asked if he could come, but Jack’s always liked the beach, and he’s always liked the quiet even more. You don’t get much quieter than a shore town in the middle of January.

Kent’s nursed a boozy hot chocolate all through Jeopardy, and a couple of Golden Girls re-runs that he’s pretty sure he’s already seen before, and he is light and warm and Jack is so close on this couch that it’s all Kent can do to to keep from dragging Jack straight into his lap.

“Hey,” Jack says, one arm wrapped around Kent’s middle, thumb whorls tracing patterns into Kent’s side through the thin cotton of his shirt. “How pissed would you be if I kissed you right now?” 

“Oh,” Kent says. Sets his cup of cocoa down on the floor, and thinks, _I don’t know,_ and then, _oh fuck, finally_. “Uh, not pissed at all?” 

Jack lets out a low huff, almost like a laugh, but even in the dim light of the fire, Kent can see how his cheeks have gone all flushed. “Thank God.” 

So, they meet in the middle. 

It’s a first.

  


Kent toes off his sneakers, and collapses into the black leather of his couch. In a lot of ways, the view from his Jersey City apartment has nothing on the desert landscapes of Las Vegas, but he’s sure as fuck not going to hate on the short commute time that comes after trouncing the Rangers 5-1.

He clicks on the TV, and stretches out, letting Kit prowl her way onto his chest, only to have her fall asleep straight away, just like he knew she would. 

Jack, with his helmet off and his sweaty, post-game hair sticking to his forehead, looms across the screen. The Falconers beat the Bruins in a shoot-out, bouncing right back from their 2-1 loss to the Devils three days ago. 

Kent almost chokes on the beer that he’s cracked open because right there on his TV screen, clear as day, and probably visible for the whole world to see, is the hickey that he must’ve left high on Jack’s neck after Saturday’s game. 

Well. Kent doesn’t think he can be blamed for that kind of thing; they hadn’t seen each other in over a month and a half. 

Kent reaches for his phone, and swipes it open. 

To: Jack  
From: Kent 

[mb try a scarf 4 next interview] 

Kent’s gaze tracks the way Jack keeps lifting up his hand, and rubbing at the bruise, absently, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Kent lets out a breath, and it comes out shaky; it’ll be another month until he can put another one in that very same place. 

That’s okay. They’ll have the time; he can wait.

  


Kent’s stomach is pleasantly full, the roast chicken and vegetables that he made for dinner just filling enough that he’s starting to edge into post-food dozing territory; the rocking of the porch swing doesn’t do him any favors, but there’s no better place in the house to watch the sun set. Jack will be done doing the dishes soon enough, and then he’ll come out to join Kent, squeezing his large frame onto the old, creaking swing, as if all 190 lbs of Kent’s muscle isn’t already strain enough. It’ll break on them one day, probably, but Kent’s not sure if he cares enough to get around to fixing it just yet.

For now, he turns up the volume on the podcast he’s been listening to, and leans back into the rocking motion. 

Kent closes his eyes, and drifts. The podcast ends, and then there’s just static in his ears, so he tugs out his earbuds, opens his eyes. 

“You still can’t sneak for shit, Zimmermann,” Kent murmurs, without looking up. Jack moves from where he’s hovering in the doorway, to kneel in front of Kent; Kent smiles, a small curl of the lips, and shifts forward, lets his eyes drift shut again as Jack leans his forehead into Kent’s. 

“You gonna fall asleep on me?” Jack says, nudging Kent back. “I, uh…..I want to talk to you about something.” 

“We’ve been over this, Zimms -- I’m not cool with you getting a freebie with Jaromir Jagr,” Kent says, letting one hand fall into Jack’s lap, fingers splaying out across Jack’s knee. “PK Subban _maybe_ , but I might want to make that one a threesome.” 

“No, Kenny, uh --” Jack starts, and Kent’s eyes fly straight open because that’s not -- that’s not a teasing voice, that’s the voice Jack uses when he’s really got something to say and no fucking idea how to say it. “Oh, for -- just look.” 

Something small and solid gets thrust into Kent’s lap, and he has to sit back in the swing to see what it is. 

“It’s a ring box,” Kent says, dumbly. He flips it open and yeah, holy fuck. That’s a ring. That’s a ring in a ring box. A slim, silver band nestled inside of a small, turquoise Tiffany’s box. “What the fuck, Jack. What the -- what the fuck.” 

Kent doesn’t hear Jack’s answer, doesn’t even know if Jack _does_ answer because all he can hear is the roaring in his ears.

“Jack, what the fuck,” Kent repeats, blinking his eyes, and oh Christ, that’s embarrassing, he’s not going to _cry_ , Jack won’t let him live this down for the rest of their fucking lives if he cries. 

Huh. 

For the rest of their lives. 

“Yes,” Kent says, suddenly. “The answer is yes.”

“You didn’t even let me ask the question,” Jack says, but there’s a smile in his voice, and in his eyes, and God, Kent never saw this part coming at seventeen. Never even got this far, in all of his crazy, most outlandish daydreams. 

Kent launches himself at Jack, and they both topple forward onto the porch floor, Kent’s fall broken by the weight of Jack, and by Jack’s hands coming up to his waist. “You asshole,” Kent murmurs into the crook of Jack’s neck. “You should know by now that you’re pretty much stuck with me.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, leaning up to brush hair out of Kent’s eyes, and looking a little more serious, and a little more awed than Kent’s sure he’s comfortable with, “but, uh….that doesn’t mean I get to take it for granted, eh?” 

Kent takes a deep breath, steadies himself. “I bet you didn’t even know what you were going to say. You just bought the ring and didn’t even stop to think about the rest of it.” 

“Uhhhhh,” Jack stutters, only a little guiltily. 

Kent snickers, because God, if that isn’t just typical Jack all over. “Busted.” 

“Still worked,” Jack says, “now I’ll never learn my lesson.” 

Kent digs his fingers tight into the loose fabric of Jack’s sweatshirt. He wants to slow this moment all the way down, press rewind and play it over, and never lose sight of how it feels. 

“Good thing you’ll only have to do this the one time.” 

Jack laughs, and presses a soft, barely there kiss to Kent’s jaw. “Good thing.”

  


Kent Parson is not going to spend the rest of his life with Jack Zimmermann.

He learns this lesson at 23, 24, 25, knows it by heart by 26; he learns it the way he learns that the tips of his ears always burn in the sun. Learns it the way he knows not to talk politics with his Uncle Chuck if he doesn't want to end the night at the bottom of a bottle of wine. 

Slowly, and with a hell of a lot of room for error along the way. 

So, he moves on. 

He builds bridges towards being friends with Jack and he spends a couple of months sleeping around with post-grads, usually from Rutgers, and he wakes up every morning, Kit purring on his chest, and thinks, alright. This is better. I can do this. 

He meets Peter, the second year med student, and likes the way his smile crinkles at the eyes, and the way Kent keeps finding Peter's flash cards all over his apartment in weird places. 

They date for six months, and Kent learns what it's like to wake up with another man in his king-size bed. Learns what it's like to talk about the shit inside his head, and that not everyone appreciates the way he leaves towels strewn all over the bathroom floor. 

Learns what it's like to juggle schedules and mix friend groups, and that just because you like someone doesn’t mean you're going to fall in love with them if you wait around long enough for it to happen. 

They're good lessons, and they come a little easier than he would’ve expected. 

Kent guesses that's progress, or maybe that's just what happens when you get older. You get less stupid, even if you had a whole lot of stupid to start out with.

“So you never told me what happened,” Jack asks over the phone one night, the distant sound of a microwave beeping telling Kent all he needs to know about how Jack’s cooking dinner plans turned out. “With, uh. Peter?” 

Kent shrugs, and then remembers that Jack can’t see it. “I don’t know, I just, uh. It wasn’t there. He’s not the kind of guy I could see myself ending up with, I guess.” 

Jack laughs, warm and close, the standard pre-chirp Zimmermann coming in at the edges. “And what kind of guy would that be?” 

Kent swallows hard, and thinks, _You. Fuck me, it’s always going to be you_.

  


Kent is about fifteen seconds into a downward dog pose when it happens.

He's got a twitch in his lower back that he's been trying to shake for weeks, now, and if the immediate lazy days of the off season are good for anything, it's telling himself that he can ignore the rest of his fitness plan for yoga. 

It's not true, exactly, but whatever. He's coming up on thirty and he's got four Cup wins in his back pocket. He can take it easy every once in awhile. 

'Course, taking it easy is a little more difficult when there's cat claws digging into his back. 

"Goddamnit, c'mon, Kit," Kent groans, flopping forward onto the mat. Kit flops with him, unconcerned, and curls up into a ball in the space between his shoulder blades. Kent rests his chin on both arms, and blows out a breath. "We've been over this, Princess. You know Daddy gets annoyed when you do this." 

There's no reply. Obviously there's no reply, he's arguing with a cat. 

"Kit thinks she's a dog again, huh?" Jack says, from somewhere above him. He's wearing sweats and a paper thin Falconers shirt, and there's a streak of bright red paint across his cheek that means Jack's probably been Skyping with Lardo. 

Jack and Lardo Skyping usually means forty minutes of silence punctuated by grunts and chirps; somehow, this translates into Lardo helping Jack to expand his artistic repertoire. What a pair of weirdos. 

"You think you're so fucking funny," Kent mutters, but there's no rancor to it. There couldn't be; not when he got to sleep for twelve hours last night, and woke up to coffee and oatmeal and a good morning blowjob in the kitchen. 

Kent doesn't care what anyone else says; married life is the fucking _best_. 

"I _am_ funny," Jack says, kicking at Kent's side lightly with the tip of his slipper. "You think I'm funny." 

"No, I don't," Kent says, which is a lie, because he does, he always has. But when it comes down to it, Kent can admit that maybe that's just the kind of thing that comes from being so ass over backwards in love with someone that even their shitty dad jokes are great to you. "I should never have encouraged you." 

Jack hums, and then leans over, scooping Kit off Kent's back and into his arms. 

"Papa wants to talk to you, when you get the chance," Jack says. "Something about a charity golf competition he wants you to join him for." 

Kent props up his chin on one hand, and gives Jack a long look. He doesn't look mad; there was a time in Kent's life when that didn't mean much of anything, but they're a lot better at reading each other's tells these days. 

"He only wants me to go because I suck at golf, and he'll win easily," Kent says, with no small amount of griping. 

"I know," Jack says simply, reaching around to drape Kit around his shoulders. "Smart man, my Papa." 

"Golf is a shitty sport," Kent says, for probably the millionth time in his life. 

"Golf requires patience," Jack says, smirking a little. "So I can see why you're not a fan." 

Kent just flips him off. "That sounds like a challenge, Zimmermann. Guess I gotta show you how patient I can be, huh?" 

Jack ducks his head, flushes. It's crazy that Kent can still make him do that, with all the years that they've known each other. "You're welcome to try."

  


"I have a question -- what's with that photo going around on Twitter of you and Kent Parson in a grocery store a couple of weeks ago? Because it looks to me like you're both wearing a wedding ring."

Jack stutters. "Uhh, well, you see...." 

Kent can only see the back of Jack's head, and the line of his shoulders in his game day suit, but Kent doesn't need to see anything else; that alone already tells him everything he needs to know. 

"Come on, Jack, what is this?" Kent says, striding up to where Jack is standing before a small media scrum, the ends of his hair still wet from his post-game shower. "What, did you put on your tie in the dark?" 

Kent’s hand grazes Jack’s elbow, the tips of Jack’s fingertips, as he comes around to stand facing Jack, between him and the reporters. “Seriously, Zimms, you’re a grown man.” 

Jack shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching. “There’s nothing wrong with my tie, Kent.” 

Kent huffs. “Says you.” He reaches out with deft fingers, and like so many times before, leans up to untie the knot in Jack’s silk tie, splaying it flat against Jack’s chest. Kent taps one finger into Jack’s chest, and gives him a small wink. 

“Am I just supposed to give this interview over your head, then?” Jack complains, but he can, he’s tall enough, and anyways, Kent’s already in the middle of looping one end of the tie through the other. 

“That’s the idea, Zimms.” 

Jack rolls his eyes. “The grocery store. Is that the one where we’re standing near the produce section?” 

“And you were trying to tell me that baby kale isn’t as good as regular kale, yeah,” Kent says, dismissively, because he’s still going to win this argument. “Regular kale doesn’t have more nutrients and it doesn’t taste as good in salads. You don’t get extra points just because something’s harder to eat, Jack.” 

“It is not harder to eat, Kenny,” Jack protests, “I don’t know why you’re so opposed to kale chips -- ”

“Not everyone’s a hipster, college boy,” Kent says, tightening the knot in Jack’s tie, and patting Jack’s chest once, twice. “Some of us actually like the food and cat pictures section of Instagram.” 

“I probably should’ve ironed this argument out before I proposed to you, eh?” Jack says, and he’s staring straight ahead, dead center at the group of reporters, but Kent hasn’t missed the way Jack’s fisted one hand into the lapel of Kent’s suit jacket. 

“Too late now, Zimmermann,” Kent murmurs, low enough that he’s sure only a couple of mics were able to pick it up. 

It doesn’t matter, anyways. The cat was already well and truly out of the bag. 

“Wouldn’t take it back for anything,” Jack says, and Kent’s glad that he’s not facing the cameras, grateful that no one’s going to get to snap a photo of whatever’s happening on his face, because he’s sure it’s something too raw and open to ever be made public. 

Kent sets his shoulders, and reaches down to lace Jack’s fingers with his. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, folks. I think my husband owes me an expensive dinner for beating my team.” 

Jack glances down at Kent for the first time since this whole clusterfuck started and smiles, a small, gentle smile that somehow still manages to feel brand new every time Kent see it. “Merci, mon cher.” 

Kent raises their interlocked hands between them to graze a light kiss across Jack’s knuckles. “Right back at you, Zimms.”


End file.
